The Masquerade
by tanuki1
Summary: SS/OC. Severus Snape isn't the only one who can hide what he really feels.... he's not the only one who can't forget their past either. Chapter 6(7) up!
1. Have you ever?

AN: I do not own anything from the Harry Potter series. It all belongs to JK Rowling. I am in your debt for creating such a wonderful series. Please don't sue me!!!!  
  
  
Prologue: Have you ever.....?  
  
**Have you ever seen a cat drown?  
  
Their eyes dilate and they bare their teeth.   
  
They hiss and try to scratch the rope that binds their feet.  
  
Their backs arch and fur stands on end.   
  
They fight and struggle, claws trying to attack the nearest victim.   
.....Then they hit the water......   
  
They fight frantically, hisses and growls become desperate yowls.  
  
Bubbles come forth from their lips and for a brief moment they stay utterly still.   
  
Realization and hopelessness sets in and their eyes become hollow and glassy.....  
  
  
Have you ever seen a person drown?  
  
  
Water doesn't need to be present, fear can consume them like the frigid waves.   
  
They fight desperately and then they lose all hope.   
  
Their eyes match those of the cats and they slowly die on the inside, bits and pieces of lost hopes and dreams surfacing like bubbles.....  
______________________________________________________________________________  
**_Have you ever killed someone?  
  
He might as well have been dead. He was in a coma for months.  
  
and I did it. It was all my fault.  
  
Sometimes...... sometimes I wish it was me who died.   
  
Nothing good came afterwards anyway.  
  
Perhaps.... perhaps my punishment is to live.  
  
To live with this sin I could never wash away.  
  
Well.... I'll live then... I need every bit of punishment, because I need to pay for my sin.  
  
  
Perhaps.... perhaps that is why I have fallen in love with a man I can never reach.   
  
Perhaps that is why I love those I can never reach..... and sadness stirs my heart whenever I see them.  
_  
AN: Hope you liked the prologue. As to who these two people are???? the answer will be revealed soon enough; one, being an original character of mine. Reviews are always welcome. Also, I will make up the childhood of one of JK Rowling's characters, if not many more. It is not valid information. It is of my invention and few of my many strange ponderings. I am writing this as I go so I hope things will work out in the end. I have thought out about half of the story. Hopefully everything will come together at the end. ^_^  



	2. Chapter 1: Father

AN: I do not own anything from the Harry Potter series. It all belongs to JK Rowling. I am in your debt for creating such a wonderful series. Please don't sue me!!!!  
  
AN: (2/24) Yes, I'm sorry, I rewrote this chapter. I was disappointed at the lack of reviews and decided to read the story myself. Honestly, I didn't like it, and since I received a review saying the details I would add would not bore them I decided to go for the gusto and redo the first 4 chapters. Content has not changed (or at least very much.) I hope this is more enjoyable to read. I will redo chapters 2-4 over the course of the week. Please be patient. Hope you guys like the story better now.  
  
Chapter 1: Father  
  
** I remember all those hours my father spent behind the closed door of the study. When I was little and couldn't reach the silver door handle I would often wonder what was behind the dark mahogany door, carved ivy regally placed near the top of the door and draping the sides. He only emerged when it was absolutely necessary. Meals were often sent to him in the room. At that age most of my memories of my father were of the house elf sending in a sandwich to my father at lunch and returning the plate with a few crumbs hours later. I believed him to be some sort of silent beast that needed to be fed three meals a day, or else would come out of the room and eat myself and my mother. My mother couldn't reach him. She tried to ignore his absence from our everyday lives, but you could see the sadness in those beautiful gray eyes. When she thought she was all alone you could hear her talking to my father, reciting the day as if it were a journal entry or a letter to a far away friend. Often, I would find her thin frame, bent with depression and lost hopes, standing by the large king sized bed, a bed for two that rarely held that number of people, whispering quietly, her lips quivering. I don't remember her crying though, I think she ran out of tears years ago.... If only my father could have heard her voice, like a caged canary's, through those plastered walls.  
  
When I was older, I sometimes wandered into his study. He knew I was there but would ignore me, busily scratching words over parchment, writing his newest book. Books scattered his desk, but the study was neat as a pin. It was dimly lit and filled with a sea of books and bookshelves. There was a leather armchair in the corner with a small table and a gas lamp, there was a chaise-long on the other side of the room, usually with a crumpled wool blanket and white feather pillow, showing his troubled and sporadic sleeping. Sometimes I would sit in the armchair and read quietly, learning about ancient civilizations and beasts. I would travel to the golden city of El Dorado, submerge myself into the deep seas to Atlantis, and wander the Silk Road in search of wizarding treasures. But, I mostly read about potions. Potions held my interest the longest; I was fascinated at the fact that they could change the entire chemistry of the body in an instant. I would stare at the pictures of fluxweed, ashwinder eggs, Abyssinian shrivelfigs, among other things, memorizing every detail, finding out about all their uses, some common, some not so common. I sometimes held one of those books open over my lap and stared at my father's hunched figure, wondering if a potion could bring him back from his secluded world.  
  
Other times I would sit on the dark green carpet that covered the floor and lay my head back against the side of his oak desk, I never dared to look over his shoulder, afraid of his anger or frustration of my presence and intruding his work. I would close my eyes, the ceiling not being an interesting thing to look at, and spend hours just listening to him scrawl across pages and pages. Scratch, blot, dip, the shuffle of parchment, the turning of pages of the book he had opened... it was the closest to spoken words between us for years.  
  
Perhaps my mother saw the same distant look in my eyes as my father's. Perhaps it was because I started to look like him, act like him. I would rarely speak, unseeing of what was in front of me. She was afraid to call me, to look at me. She lost her little boy she could hold onto. I was now her little man and followed my father's foot steps with the small pitter patter of my feet, my shoes no where the size of his large foot prints he had left behind for me. I could barely see him in the distance, and I was afraid that I had lost my mother and dared not turn back to confirm it.  
  
She died when I was eight. She was only thirty two, I remember her gray hair cascading down her shoulders and crowning her face as they closed the coffin shut, a corner of her Victorian gray dress and starchy white lace getting caught in the corner. My father just stood over the coffin when she was buried deep into the ground, just staring, the warm sun beating down his back, the warm spring winds making the grass at his feet dance around his black shoes, and myself at his side. He never said a word during the funeral. But then again, neither did I.  
  
If it was bad before, now my father buried himself in work trying to forget everything. Books were pilled high around him at his desk, parchment scattered the green carpet. He would take his meals in the study and a house elf would run errands for him. I noticed, a few weeks after my last visit that he had locked the heavy study door, like the ivy covered brick buildings, this door separated myself from its inhabiter.   
  
With nothing else to do, the grim and old house elf that had taught me math and English when I was young having nothing left to teach me, I took to exploring the large and empty mansion. I found my own little secluded corner a little while later. It was a small laboratory that was dry and well lit on the sunny day, dust particles slowly flittering around the room, the floors bare with shined wooden planks, silent when I walked into the room. The walls were filled with books, instruments, and in one corner an oak cabinet with double doors held potion ingredients from every corner of the earth, some I had read of, others bottles and jars held mysteries waiting to be solved in my small mind. I had no doubt the bookshelves would hold the answers I sought. I had never seen this room filled with such items until now; when I came to this wing of the house last time it was empty, dark with the lack of light from the drizzle and gray clouds that day, and the floor boards creaked under my feet.   
  
I wandered to the work bench, set up with beakers, vials, burners, and cauldrons. There, on the bench was a small slip of parchment with three words, written with the blackest ink, in my father's scrawl: To my son.  
**  
AN: Reviews are very much appreciated. Actually... PLEASE REVIEW!!!! (NOW, if at all possible~) ^_^   
Credits to the Harry Potter Lexicon! What would I ever do without you~? I'm not one to skimmer through the books looking for every single detail of what has happened. At least... not yet.


	3. Chapter 2: Scars

AN: I do not own anything from the Harry Potter series. It all belongs to JK Rowling. I am in your debt for creating such a wonderful series. Please don't sue me!!!!  
  
AN: (2/25) updated for your reading pleasure. ^_^  
  
Chapter 2: Scars  
  
_At least my parents had each other.   
  
I had no one.   
  
The closest thing I could call a friend was a stuffed animal, a rabbit with floppy pink ears and soft fur. His paws were sewed together so you could slip him around your arm and he would hang onto you. I never let him dangle, forgotten in the air, though. I would hold him in my embrace, his soft fur keeping my chest warm and I would look over his head and between his ears when I carried him so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone.   
  
My father tried to connect with his family. He was still welcomed in with warm embraces, and soft kisses from his sisters, but my mother and I waited out on the sunny porch, swinging on the squeaky white porch swing. She would look over the porch rails and gaze at the garden filled with flowers, some she had never seen before. I would often dangle my feet from the swing wondering when they would touch the ground, or cuddle up into a ball and fall into a deep sleep, tired of waiting. Other times we would wait at a hotel nearby. I remember the ice maker being loud and sounds of the springs in the mattress would make when we moved. It was a horrible coverlet, decorated with disproportionally large flowers, browned by age, and covered in a thin layer of dust. We were never allowed in the house. Muggles weren't allowed to see the wizarding world.  
  
My mother's small family believed my father was crazy, a man with a warped sense of reality. I would be with my father out in the entrance hall where we would sit on a wooden bench or on the cold granite floor. He often held a book in his hand and read, once in a while muttering things under his breath. I would set down my rabbit by him and would play hopscotch quietly, my shoes clicking against the granite tiles, or I would occupy myself with a set of colored glass tiddly winks. Most of the times we would spend the night in the hotel across the street, I remember the five story climb to our rooms and my father whipping his wand out and whispering More often then not, the lamps would then proceed to burst into flame.   
  
My parents could fit somewhere in this vast world, but I had nowhere to go myself. Being neither witch nor muggle, I wondered where I could go to escape from everyone, everything. I would dream of a distant land, deep underground, where gems would shine and rocks would glow with multiple colors, a city that was carved out of stone and filled with flower shops, book stores, a lake and delicious food. There would be no one there. No one would run away. No one would frown at me, wizard and witches that I saw enter the Leaky Cauldron, where I would meet my father sometimes, would offer me help to enter the wizarding world. Then they would notice my mother holding onto my hand and looking, but not seeing the shop there. They would frown then. They didn't know if I could see the shop or not, but they would assume, and they held a look of disgust in their eyes. The muggles didn't quite know what was wrong, perhaps it was the black velvet robe I wore sometimes in the chilly months, perhaps it was something they saw in my detached expression, but they were disturbed nonetheless. You could see their fear. You could taste their bitter hate in your mouth. It was like metal and blood, foreign to the taste buds but displeasing and would never go away despite how much minty toothpaste you used.   
  
My parents tried to comfort me. They would take me to amusement parks, filled with balloons and fast moving rides, shapes whirling inside my head. Other times I would shop in downtown London with my mother, stopping at my mother's heals and staring up at the display windows, my mother debating weather to go into the shop or not. But I rarely asked for anything.   
  
All I wanted was to fit in.  
  
And I knew they couldn't get me that.  
  
Maybe that's why they had another child.   
  
This time a boy.   
  
Two would more readily survive than one.   
  
He curled his tiny fingers around my thumb when I saw him, clothed in a blue terry cloth nightie, at the maternity ward of the hospital. I was determined he would have happier days than I had.   
  
A year later I was in the 1st grade and the name calling and beatings began.   
  
When the teachers weren't around the children made sport of me. One boy in particular hated me, laughed at me. He smashed my head into a mud puddle once. I began to choke as his foot stepped on back, holding me down. At first I was scared; then for one brief moment I was filled with hatred, a most painful and sinful hatred.   
  
I wanted him dead.  
  
I remember sitting up and staring at emptiness.   
  
His body was flat on the ground.   
  
The kids around us stared and then they began to scream.   
  
I couldn't scream. I was too frightened to scream.   
  
The teacher looked at muddy face, my skirt ripped and with various grass stains.... and then at the boy.  
  
The boy that wasn't moving.  
  
I always wanted to fit in, in one way or another, but had I known I would be recognized as a witch in this way....... I would have never let myself become one.  
  
I transferred to anther school.   
  
My father and his family were delighted I was a witch. They held a garden party soon afterwards, my mother nursing my baby brother on the porch swing. I remember the large pink frosted cake. It towered above me. My father told me they had written Congratulations Neoma! across the top. I held onto my rabbit. I didn't want that cake. I wanted it smashed, pink frosting covering everything within a mile. I stared at my shinny black and uncomfortable mary janes.   
  
I walked into the house quietly and hid in the cupboard under the sink until it was time to leave.  
  
They were convinced my brother would be a wizard too. They introduced him to the wizarding world at the tender age of two and my sinful self at age seven.   
  
His amber eyes twinkled in delight. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.  
  
All I could see was the pain I had created.  
  
But he still felt like he didn't belong. I couldn't blame him. We were still in another way. Our mother was Japanese, our father English. We would spend the weekends learning Japanese at a small school in England. Summers were what caused us pain though. We were sent to public school in Japan with the Japanese kids of our age and would be frowned upon. We could do just as well, if not better than them in class.   
  
They hated us.  
  
I remember my brother crying and running toward me at the young age of five after his first beating. I held him in my arms and let him cry. I comforted him the best I could until he ran out of tears, gently patting his back and rocking him in my arms, humming a gentle song I had learned that day.... something about crows going home after the sun set and little birds dreaming in their nest.....  
  
I could not explain to him why those children had done that to him. I told him that I had never figured it out for all the years since I was five. He looked up at me curiously, his cheeks still striped with the remnants of tears. His palm cupped my cheek, followed my jaw bone and hesitated for a second before he dug under my brown turtle neck. He touched a wound that was just beginning to heal, a scratchy and rough blood clot met his fingers. I looked at him sadly, he looked up at me with shock and then looked as if he was going to cry again. Now understood why I had worn turtle necks and long skirts for as long as he could remember.   
  
He had gotten a deep cut under his left eye, right above his cheek. It would scar but he refused for father to fix it with his wand or his soothing herbs. Perhaps he felt that the scar would remind him of me. That scar had connected us. We had faced life together and survived. I held onto him, as he held onto me, my stuffed rabbit forgotten in the dark corner of my room.   
  
We refused to let go for those few short years we had left.  
_  
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AN: Please review. I live for your reviews.... and then again..... I have a pretty sad life.... Yes, this is my OC. She will be more well known in the next chapter. (but even MORE in chapter 4~!)


	4. Chapter 3: A New Year and an Enigma

AN: I do not own anything from the Harry Potter series. It all belongs to JK Rowling. I am in your debt for creating such a wonderful series. Please don't sue me!!!!  
  
AN: Revised for your reading pleasure.  
  
Chapter 3: A New Year and an Enigma  
  
** The traces of summer were steadily diminishing: the sun setting earlier in the evenings; the giant squid in the lake was splashing about less; and the sound of hundreds of owls beating their wings, being sent off every morning with a letter gripped tightly in their claws, with name written in emerald green ink.   
  
The office was a wonderful place to escape the incorrigible summer heat and unwanted conversations with the other professors. I took the summer to catch up on my research of non-diluted bundimon secretions. I would let the cauldrons boils and bubble in the evenings when the air was cooler and the heat forgotten by the sheer chill of the night, and in the mornings and early afternoons I would write down my results of the previous night's experiment. I had collected about 3 volumes of notes over the summer and had made some progress with a potion that could weaken Lord Voldemort. However, it was far from complete. First, it was still easily detectable and had an antidote that could be completed in a few short hours. Secondly, the potency needed to be last longer so that there was ample time for Dumbledore and the others could attack while Voldemort was still weak. So far my months of research had made it so that the potion was colorless, tasteless, odorless, deathly, and so potent that one only needed to touch it to have it work against their body. However, that wasn't enough. I would need to spend most of my free time this school year working on the potion between grading papers and teaching those dunderheads, with each passing moment who knows what the dark lord was planning, killing, hurting, laughing...  
  
I lied back in my comfy office chair, pinching the space between my squinting eyes, trying to forget that demented man's face, trying to forget such horrible times, the sins I have witnessed. Thankfully this is my last year with the damnable Harry Potter and the likes. Thank the Heavens. But perhaps the fact that he's still here for another year, along with that menace to cauldrons everywhere Longbottom, cascades a shadow over this joyous thought.   
  
Okay, maybe I'm just hallucinating.   
  
This year's going to be hell.   
  
That four footed flea bag werewolf, Lupin, has decided to stay to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, receiving no complaints from the year before. The thought of brewing all those wolfsbane potions for the rest of eternity bugs the hell out of me.  
  
It was late in the evening, the first week of classes. I still had a stack of parchment as tall as my desk to grade, I didn't feel like going through the papers of those idiots that the staff call I didn't want to see hastily scrawled words across the parchment, obviously without much thought or effort. I didn't want to read the Granger girl's long, tedious, and boring parchment on the uses of erumpent horns. I didn't want to read Zabini's parchment which was always an attempt at humor. I didn't want to do any of it. But it had to be done. I grumbled and squinted one last time before I began to attack the parchments with a vengeance. I grabbed my black quill and dipped it in a pot of red india ink, writing in corrections and scathing remarks across the students' homework. I could get this done in an hour or so if I didn't read too much into any of these papers, it's not like they put a lot of effort into them anyway. I wondered if anybody than possibly Miss Granger would pass the NEWTS and OWLS this year. I would need to keep them on their toes this year, those students were not types to study potions for intrinsic motivations, I would need to punish them, extrinsic motivation was better than none. I finished the stack of parchments and put them off to one side of my mahogany desk. I glanced at the small scraps of papers, notes from the other professors. Sprout had left the mandrake leaves in my store room, McGonagall was asking me for a few vials for her next class, a friendly note from Dumbledore reminded me to attend a staff meeting, among other things.  
  
The year started out normal enough. Or should I state just as horribly normal? The sorting hat ceremony proved that we would have a new bunch of dunderheads for those we had finally shooed out of this institution. I always find it interesting that the sorting hat is able to always divide the students evenly among the four houses, no one house having an excess of students. I wonder if the sorting hat does it out of convenience or that it is destined for Hogwarts to accept a set number of certain students that would go into each house, even before the hat sorts them. Also, I am noting with annoyance, that the terrible twins of Weasley have opened shop in Hogsmeade during the summer. I passed by it once and saw the sign was magicked to shoot out sparks every once in a while and the shop was filled with shelves upon shelves of their mischievous magical blunders. It also was filled with customers; sadly, it seems they won't be out of business anytime soon. I think I will need to confiscate more Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes contraptions and canary creams than all the time they were here at Hogwarts. Far from a joy, I assure you. I can only imagine what disaster will happen if one falls into my cauldrons.   
  
On a subtler note, an enigma of sorts has joined the staff this year. Her name is Neoma Mortar, a previous student to Hogwarts. She is teaching a new class entitled Wizarding Economics. Hopefully a government class can follow so the Ministry can be have SOMEONE qualified for some of the positions. She walked in a few weeks before classes started, her luggage blocking the entrance the day before she came. I did not see her until the staff meeting before the students arrived at Hogwarts but she had dark brown hair that was put into a bun with the ends splayed across her shoulders and is now the youngest staff member, replacing myself, Lupin, and Vector. She is about 26 or so, far too young for a witch like herself to teach. She was conservative in dress, a large pleated navy blue skirt danced with the ends of her black robes touching the floor, she wore a stiff white blouse and a navy blue blazer that matched her skirt. The only thing she showed of her skin was her hands and her face, a refreshing thought after seeing all the hormone crazed young girls at Hogwarts were wearing tacky skimpy clothing, believing that they were mature. She looked calm, quiet, and smiled when she walked into the room. She took a chair near the window, looking out into the deep blue of the sky, her hands folded at her lap, her mind obviously elsewhere. Trelawney waltzed in later, carrying in a scent of expired incense, expressing about her inner eye sensing that the meeting would start late anyway. She caught sight of Professor Mortar and tried to introduced herself. Professor Mortar's expression hardened after a while, a frown forming at the ends of her lips. She did not respond to Sybil's questions, not that Sybill noticed anyway with her insistent babbling. When Trelawney tried to predict Professor Mortar's future Professor Mortar icily told her that she was already destined to die like the rest of humanity and tension filled the air. Trelawney was silent for the rest of the meeting and Mortar was fidgety for the rest of the meeting and dashed out of the room when the meeting broke up, a frown still on her lips but her face as white as a sheet.   
  
Later that evening at the staff table she was clutching a small boy's hand. He was about eight, had red hair that could match any of the Weasleys' and had piercing green eyes. He looked defiant but held to Mortar's hand tightly and glared at every face at the table. Mortar smiled her original cheery smile but her eyes and the angle of her head apologized for the boy's suspicions. At the head table he sat between Hagrid and Professor Mortar, after the meals appeared he lost all emotions of being suspicious but was filled with simple joy as he ate his chicken legs. He smiled and wolfed down the food and Hagrid smiled at the boy; there seemed to be some conversation between the three of them. I'm confused as to why Professor Mortar would have a child at this age. Perhaps someone took advantage of her, for she seems the sort that would not be able to fight. Far too young to be a mother. Later I noticed him walking behind Professor Mortar after the first day of classes. I wonder why he follows her around all day and not going to a proper school. So far I have never heard him speak either.  
  
When classes began she created a stir among the students. She smiled and talked calmly but is just as capable of being strict, as she as deducted over 100 points over the course of the first week. She also has some strange ideas and contraptions, as she now has something the muggles call white boards and writes on the boards using colored markers that dry when one writes with them and then is easy to erase. She also has an air of mystery, as she has been going to the owlery and sending several owls a day with small packages tied to their talons. Although it was hard for others to talk to her after the incident with Sybill, Lupin has found her to be an amusing conversationalist dripping with sarcasm, novel ideas, and bubbly laughter. I have not conversed with her myself and perhaps that is why I do not overly dislike her yet. She will be a fine professor as long as she will have a firm grasp on her students. They still do not know whether to love her or to fear her. Unlike myself, where I don't give them an option.  
  
I got out of my chair and walked around the desk, walking over the various patterns of a persian rug. I blew out the last of the tall dark green candles in the office, turned off the brightly burning gas lamp on the edge of my desk and headed toward the door the door, clutching a glass lantern rimmed with black. I locked and warded the door and headed toward my chambers. I hoped I would be able to sleep tonight. Even though I didn't want my nightmares to haunt me, my night terrors to tire my already tired body. I remember each person, each of their screams, each of their faces contorted with pain and fear.   
  
My dark mark still burns at times, sometimes painfully so, but I know he will kill me if he ever catches sight of me again after I betrayed him once, if not twice. I however have new hopes for his destruction as Draco has graciously offered his services despite going behind his father's back. I feel sorrow for the boy for having to experience such pains at such a young age.   
  
I know what it feels like.  
  
Draco will be our eyes and our ears and Dumbledore will be the brains.   
  
Myself, I will be the faithful servant and scientist with hopefully a potion that would rid of the world of this evil.  
  
Goodness knows I have experienced and created too much of that evil.  
  
**AN:(2/28) Once again, credits to the Harry Potter Lexicon. I will revise chapter 4 saturday and hopefully I can update with chapter 7 on sunday. Hope you enjoy the story so far. Please REVIEW!!!!!!  



	5. Chapter 4: Arrival

AN: I do not own anything from the Harry Potter series. It all belongs to JK Rowling. I am in your debt for creating such a wonderful series. Please don't sue me!!!!  
  
AN:(3/1) updated (not alot though) for your reading pleasure.  
  
white raven- Thank-you-ever-so-much for your review! Can't you see me dance in joy?! hahaha... yes, I know, the prologue was rather creepy. I think it has to do with something about my hobby of scaring little children... last week I told the 7 year olds I was TA-ing that braces were contagious and started snapping my jowls.... okay... maybe i'm just weird... and creepy. And yes, I am a cat owner myself and my cat DARED me to write it. Go ahead and just try she glared at me, see if I snuggle with _you_ anymore!... oh it's so cold at night now. _ lol.   
  
  
Chapter 4: Arrival  
  
_Ah! Hogwarts! I haven't been here and felt your ancient magic in many years. My skin shivers sometimes because I can feel your power at my finger tips. Headmaster Dumbledore assured me of your safety, but your power both astounds me and scares me. Well, hopefully, you will welcome me with open arms.... and Peeves will learn to stay away from me this time.  
  
I came with the rain pouring in sheets outside the castle. I thought I had left behind the typhoon season in Japan, but it seems to have followed me for the day. It was the first time Kitsu had traveled by portkey, and I think he's still trying to figure out whether he liked it or not. It certainly surprised him. I laughed when I saw that his eyes were the size of saucers as he held onto me tightly. We walked up from the gates, an anti-rain spell upon both of us so we could walk between the rain drops and trek in mud. I wonder if there are any spells to make the ground firm so one would not have to drag their feet through that awful amount of mud?  
  
Kitsu stood in awe in front of the large castle, the tall stone towers standing quietly on gaurd with their regal pennants blowing in the wind. I thought that Kitsu would enjoy living here, especially with all the hidden walkways and rooms, it would be a healthy environment for a curious and energetic boy like him. We walked quietly to the entrance, the castle seemed to be in a deep slumber that afternoon; it was a calm quiet, the kind after such a storm we were expirencing would pass. One door creaked open when we approached the large double doors, carved with the crest of the school. I peaked around the corner, afraid of what might be awaiting me. Kitsu ran out from behind me and stopped in the large entrance way, gazing up at the tall ceiling. It was his first time seeing Hogwarts and he was excited upon hearing that we would go to England for my work. A house elf (or should I say a castle elf' perhaps?) was sitting on the stone steps that lead to the dinning hall and jumped up upon seeing us. I still had mixed feelings about these creatures. It certainly would be a simple life to just do what you were told, and it would certainly keep one occupied to keep busy and do housework... but admiration of those others who could walk about freely and do what they please with their own money would wrench my heart out and kill me.   
  
In any event, he stood up quickly, his slightly tan Hogwart's towel skirting about his knobby knees, and approached us at a skitter and a dash.  
  
Miss Neoma Mortar? His eyes were filled with a dull luster.  
Yes, that is my name. I proceeded to walk toward the center of the room, the sound of my mud caked boots creating hollow sounds against the walls.  
Let me show you to your rooms miss, the last of your luggage arrived earlier this morning and we have set your room up for you. The one trunk you indicated, we have left alone and packed. The accommodations are situated near the Ravenclaw main room. If you would follow me? and he then continued to skitter down the hall.  
  
I grabbed Kitsu by the arm, who was sniffing the suit of armor that was getting uneasy at the unwanted attention, and followed quicky after the house elf. A large painting was hidden in the far end of a corridor; it depicted a large floating castle in the sky and a girl carrying a milk pail in the corner on the edge of a cliff, her back toward us. A giggly and annoying little girl. She showed us the brick at the bottom to kick for Kitsu to enter, seeing that he can't talk. The house elf left me to my own devices after bowing at the steps to my chambers and skidded down the hall to report my arrival to the Headmaster.   
  
The children arrived two weeks later. The sorting hat ceremony had not changed after all these years except maybe the hat looked a little shabbier, if that's possible. I hid behind Hagrid's large figure with Kitsu between us. It was a lot scarier to be up at the staff table than to hide among the throng of students at the house tables. I tried to calm myself by pointing out the enchanted ceiling to Kitsu, he smiled and leaned against my shoulder as I told him about each of the constallations quietly as the sorting ceremony commenced. No one had asked about Kitsu, although they are staring at him, looking back and forth between him and me. Perhaps they are being polite. I caught the glance of one child who was looking at us, and I knew that look in his eyes...they thought he's my child?! Oh, what an amusing thought! I almost laughed out loud there and then, but I just sighed deeply, my eyes softening, my smile a little sadder, and my heart felt fuzzy. I would love to believe that Kitsu was my child and would stay with me forever. Perhaps I should continue this charade of being his mother... but Hagrid seems to know what Kitsu is to me, a man such as himself who is so knowledgeable with magical creatures would certainly know that Kitsu is a Japanese fox. Hagrid's however has not said anything about it to me. But, those sparkling eyes of his are giving him away.  
  
It was that night in which I had time to look at him closely. I had tried to avoid him the past two weeks, only to see him at the staff meeting yesterday. I have always been afraid of seerers, despite what I have heard about Trelawney's reputation of not having any such talent. I fear that they will discover how unclean I am with this sin that will never wash away, this blackness of my soul. I panicked and for a brief moment I did not think and snapped back at her. I was angry... then scared... then embarrassed and ran out of the room as soon as the meeting was over with. My thoughts were too occupied with my actions to notice him then.   
  
Subtlety was his nature, however after 8 years anyone could notice he had lost weight. His cheeks had hallowed, his hands had lost all appearance of youth, but they still held power, they still could caress, if he would be so bold, just like those bottles and vials which he held to carefully, as if he's holding the world in those containers. Tonight, that frown was set in his features more strongly, his raven black hair matching those angry eyes of his. I could hardly remember that one brief moment where those eyes held a hint of sadness, and another time with pain and confusion. But I knew they were there. Perhaps that is what brought me back, useless as it was. I just want to look at him from a distance, instead of running away from it all, I want to see him satisfied; that is all I hope for... and I then I will be happy..... then I will stop pushing myself in this useless direction.  
  
_AN: Hope you enjoy the story so far. Please review!!!


	6. Chapter 5: Ollivander's

AN: I do not own anything from the Harry Potter series. I am making absolutely nada, zilch, zero for money. It all belongs to JK Rowling. I am in your debt for creating such a wonderful series! Please don't sue me!!!!  
  
AN: Presently, I am in shock. I wrote out a brief outline last night. I think this story will take me to August with 50 chapters total..... WHAT HAVE I STARTED???!!!! (2/15)  
  
Chapter 5: Ollivander's**  
  
I don't remember what the weather was like, there was only a few small windows high on the wall, near the celling. I think it might have been a cloudy day outside the mansion; I don't seem to recall a bright beam of light shining out onto the middle of the workbench, but I don't remember the sound of rain hitting the mansion and the window panes either. I do remember it was early August, I would be turning eleven in a little over a month and a half.  
  
I was turning the burner down and letting the clear purple liquid in the beaker simmer when I heard him. My ears, which were used to the utter silence of the mansion the faint sound bubbling potions, heard a sound which was foreign: my father's shoes were walking down the hall.   
  
At first I thought I was imagining the sound, but when I looked towards the door my hand dropped to my side, potion all forgotten. My father stood in the door frame, looking at me with those eyes like coal, memorizing the dimensions, the objects, the colors, the texts and then finally settling on me. I was about 5 ft 1 in then, a little above my father's elbow. My hair was about shoulder length, tied because of its sheer annoyance when working. I was wearing a loose black turtle neck and black trousers despite the sweltering heat of the room. My black work robe was hanging, forgotten, on the edge of the chair by the bookshelves. That is what I may have been wearing and what I looked like but I couldn't tell what my father saw in me, how he summed me up. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, what he was calculating behind those emotionless eyes.  
  
I remembered the potion in front of me and turned off the burner. This could wait. If my father came out from that study of his, it had to be important. Even if it were the end of the world I think he would continue writing, hoping that someone would survive and find his words.  
  
We stood there silent for a while staring at each other.  
  
You've been accepted at Hogwarts.  
  
It wasn't a congratulation or distaste. He just simply stated the fact, emotion all drained out from years of solitude.  
  
I nodded. I had seen the snowy owl on the perch outside my father's study earlier this morning. My name was written upon it in emerald green writing, but I had never received a letter before and decided to leave it alone.  
  
He was about forty, far from young, but far from old. He had inky bangs and hair cut at moderate length, coming to a stop a little past his ears. He wore a gray collared shirt with a loosely tied black tie and black slacks. He had his black robe under one arm; a single, small, golden pin with a red rose on the end of it showing; a present from mother when she was alive, an anniversary gift.  
  
You'll need a wand.  
  
I blinked, it had never occurred to me to get a wand, much less use one and how to use it, but every great witch and wizard had one. I stood there silently, not knowing how to respond. Usually, the house elves would buy and prepare everything I required without having myself to ask but a wand... a wand would require my own self and someone to take to me to get one.  
  
  
and with that he left towards the living room.  
  
I think I stood there for a few more seconds, disbelieving, debating if I had inhaled the fumes from the potion and was hallucinating but there were no such side effects to this potion.  
  
Silence. And then..... I scrambled across the room knocking over a coat rack near the door and headed down the hall to fetch my normal robe, ran down the stairs while buttoning the first few buttons near the top, letting the bottom swirl and flap after me.  
  
I stopped a few feet short of the living room and cautiously walked to my father who was polishing his own wand. I looked up at him and looked at the fireplace.  
  
Are we going by Floo Powder?  
He looked at me sternly.  
  
I think not. Unless of course, you would prefer ashes on you robe?  
  
I shook my head once, twice.  
No, sir.  
  
Then we'll apparate. Hold onto my hand tightly now, and don't let go.  
  
His had felt warm in mine, his large fingers clasped around my palm, ink blots staining the skin. I closed my eyes, trying to hold onto the feeling, thinking that this is what my father felt like. I felt a rush of cool air brushing against my face, the feeling I had left my body in some distant land and then... I stumbled onto a cobble stone road. My father pulled me back, letting me gain my balance again. I had heard about Diagon Alley but had never visited it myself thus far. I could make out the sky between the tall and rustic buildings, chimney stacks littering the roof tops chugging out puffs of white and gray smoke, owls sometimes swooping around as well. There were crowds of people, a constant and steady chatter, slightly muted if you did not pay attention to any one specific conversation. I saw children younger than myself pressing their noses against glass, looking at the newest broomsticks and other showcased items. We walked for a while, myself following behind my father's figure and trying to soak up the sights and sounds.  
  
We stopped once, I almost bumped into the back of my father. We stood in front of a narrow and shabby little shop with a sign saying Ollivander's. Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC over the door. There was a faded purple cushion with a single wand in the window display. My father walked in first and there was the faint sound of a bell ringing in the back of the building. My father walked up to the counter and I followed close behind him, unsure of what to expect.  
  
A man in his early forties popped up from behind the counter, a crazy look in his eyes and his light brown hair fringed on the ends. He smiled broadly, a cheshire cat smile. He looked at my father and then switched his gaze towards me.  
  
Ah.... I was wondering when you would come in, young master Snape.  
He edged himself around the counter and bent down to meet my gaze. He looked into my face, searching.  
  
You're a splitting image of your father.... but you have your mother's skin, like alabaster... Now, which is your wand arm? and he pulled out a tape measure from a pocket within his robe.  
  
I indicated my right arm, slowly raising it a bit.   
  
Good, good. A little higher please.  
  
He measured the distance from my shoulder to my wrist, the span of my palm, wrist to the tip of my thumb... my father sat down in the spindly chair in the corner of the shop and looked upon the scene, not really seeing. I realized the tape measure was moving on its own accord and caught sight of the shop owner rushing off to the back of the store, lined with small boxes upon boxes. He quickly returned with a mahogany colored box. The tape measure obediently stopped, rolled up and returned to lay on the counter. He carefully removed the lid and placed a wand into my palm.  
  
11 inches, yew, supple, unicorn hair. Good for charm work. Try this. he mentioned, his voice eager.  
  
I swished it once. Nothing. It was cold.  
  
The shop owner quickly took the wand from my fingers. No. It seems not. and rushed back to the boxes in the back. He came back with a tan box and pulled out another wand.  
  
12 1/4 inch, willow, pliable, phoenix feather. He looked at me expectantly.  
  
I swished it. Once again nothing. I was powerless.  
  
Nope. Third time's a charm. and then went, this time taking a little more time than the last two times. He returned this time he carried a dusty and thin black box, edges worn with time.  
  
Perhaps it is your time? he said to the wand.  
  
My fingers clasped around the wand. I felt a calming warmth spread.  
  
11 1/2 inch, birch, stiff, dragon heartstring. Good for- but he was cut off as I swished the piece of wood and the melodious and sad song of a hundred nightingales filled the small shop. It reminded me of my mother. Perhaps she was watching from the shutters, from the heavens.  
  
With one last wavering note, the room went silent. I had found my wand.  
  
Told you the third time was a charm. the shop owner said with a wink and took the wand gently from my hand and placed it between the folds of dark green velvet, into the dusty black box.  
  
My father got up from his chair and paid for the wand and we left without saying a single word.   
  
I didn't know when I would use it; but I held onto that box, that wand, a gift from my father, a memory of my father.  
**  
AN: yay~! 1555 words for this chapter alone! I'll make this a satisfactory story yet! I was so mad when I read the notice that I couldn't update my story until sunday. All I could think was but I want to update this now~!!!! _ (friday) Well, I hope your enjoying the story so far. As for the cat part in the beginning? All will become clear in chapter (counts fingers)....13! (I think).... either that or chapter 9. I'm still debating about Snape's next flash back. I had fun writing this one. I usually like to write like this but sometimes I worry all the details get boring to read. Is it? If it is, please tell me, I'll try again with another style after the next set of 4 chapters. I liked Quillusion's story about Snape buying a wand and I was tempted to have green bubbles or rain be the result of his wand waving but I didn't do it! I won't steal anything if I can! I'm a little worried about the next chapter. I wanted to write about Neoma's experience buying a wand in comparison but I'm afraid that you, the readers, have had your fill of wand shopping? Please bear with me. Reviews are welcome anytime!!!! (2/14)  



	7. Chapter 6: Diagon Alley

Author's Replies and Notes:  
Ashley*CB: thank you for your kind kind kind words~! (I'm crying with tears of joy~!) I'm glad my OC is alive and doing well. (I know the feeling, a lot of OC's are too perfect, no flaws whatsoever. They tend to get annoying. I was afraid Neoma might seem exaggerated.... maybe she is? *crosses fingers* I really hope not.) As for Snape's past? I'm enjoying writing them too. ^_^ I guess it's a win-win situation. I am also looking forward to bring in other main characters from the HP series into Snape's life. You know someone's going to make Snape-the-bastard appear in his school days! *grins wickedly* Ahhh! How I'm looking forward to write that!   
  
misy morcant,29, history of magic sub: neat-o name. hmm.... makes me want to bring in Professor Binns... although I never really considered it.... I wonder if he would sit at the head table even though he can't eat? hmmm.... ^_^ I'm glad people are liking the innocent and indifferent child Snape I've created so far. I hope I will continue to write a satisfactory Snape. Your short and sweet review encourages me. (I have a sudden urge to hurry up and get to chapter 9!)  
  
Sorry for the delay, I have a large paper due on monday. O.o I finished writing this chapter out by hand on tuesday, I just didn't have time to type it up until now.  
  
I'm still shocked about the number of chapters! Does ff.net allow 50 chapters? (If not I'll do an ending half/sequel!!!) _ This thing's been going on in my head since October! I'm going to get it finished if it's the last thing I do!  
  
Chapter 6: Diagon Alley  
  
_Our father owned an Apothecary in Diagon Alley and in the afternoons my brother Jiei and I would give kisses to our mother on her cheek and wave from the fireplace, thrusting Floo Powder into it and tumbling out into the back room of the shop. Jiei first, then me. We would brush the soot off ourselves before rushing off to the counter and help our father with his customers.  
  
The shop was never really filled but business was tolerably well. The shop was covered in shades of tans, browns, and oranges. Unlike most of the other apothecaries nearby that were self-serve, our father stored his supplies in the back and had the various witches, wizards, goblins, and elves wait at the counter or one of the few chairs in the room. The room was mostly devoted to my father's potions. One wall was covered in a netlike array of shelves filled with liquids and powders of different colors, textures, and consistencies. Some were the most basic of potions but our father knew many did not have patience to brew their own potions when, for a little money, they could buy already made potions quickly.  
  
When my brother could hold his hand steady our father brought him to the back room, teaching him how to dry, grind, refine, bottle and cork. What used to be the sad song of one mortar and pestle became a harmony, a duet. We spent countless hours preparing, labeling, and rearranging ingredients. We would quiz each other often on each ingredient and its uses, sometimes resorting to our father to settle our arguments. Our father tried to teach me how to prepare some of the potions but I would usually end up with sad excuse of a potion, once I melted a whole cauldron and ruined a good number of potion ingredients I had prepared that day. When I was of 9 years of age I could finally mix potions without destroying anything but they were of the simplest kind. My brother was showing more promise as he had matched my skill of potions when I was 9 at his age of 5. I, however had fine tuned my skills at the workbench preparing the ingredients my brother could not refine. Our father would laugh and said we would go far together. Jiei would show a toothy grin and laughter would sparkle in his amber eyes.  
  
My brother and I would take breaks by going to the Leaky Cauldron and eat peanut butter and honey sandwiches on the bar stools. Jiei would talk with the bar tender about his wild adventures or a new potion our father was showing him how to brew. I would watch him as the bar tender listened as Jiei told his stories with excitement, his eyes like dinner plates, and I would smile trying to get the peanut butter off the roof of my mouth.   
  
Other times we would walk around Diagon Alley peering into shops and nibbling on whatever we had. I would always have my robe pockets filled with various candies for Jiei; he especially took delight in the tangy lemon sherbet candies that would make his tongue various colors. He also enjoyed the joke shops, our father and myself being his unsuspecting victims. I remember he put a slip of paper in my coat pocket once that had the boys around me recite poetry and ask me to marry them. Well, he got his just deserts the next day when he got the same piece of paper in the pocket of his jeans. He tickled me to death when we got home from school, shouting that I should have made it so at least the GIRLS would fall in love with him.  
  
And then we discovered Ollivander's.  
  
My brother would and for hours and talk about owning a wand and performing all feats of magic. I would just stand there in front of the shop and stare at the wand in the shop window, thoughts and memories drowning me. While my brother was reminded ot our uncle and aunts using magic to make fountains squirt juice and wine at their garden parties, all I could remember was that small boy lying on the ground. I accepted ever beating since then because I was afraid that I would act the same way, cause another accident. I didn't want to be powerful... I didn't want to hurt anyone anymore.  
  
Then I received my letter from Hogwarts.  
  
I had made sure not to let my emotions grab a hold of me or get into any dangerous situations and had never thought of using magic for any solution.  
  
But they knew. They knew I was a witch. They knew of my sinful act.  
  
My father and brother were thrilled. They spent countless hours in Diagon Alley debating whether to by a pewter or brass cauldron, finding my textbooks, and other things at the best prices.  
  
I was silent for the last month since I had received my letter. My brother was too excited to notice my fear but my father saw right through me. He took me in his arms one night and assured me that I would learn only magic that would help me and help those around me. I only wanted to control it. He told me that wands were like lenses that would concentrate all our power into a small area and make us both powerful and able to control our magic. He assured me that Hogwarts would not fail me and told me of his youthful days spent in Hufflepuff house. He told me of the talking and moving portraits, the great hall with the enchanted celling, the large library, the moving staircases.....  
  
We went to Ollivander's the next day leaving my brother to tend the shop. He would keep the customers amused at the age six, if he could not help them. I let my father lead me into the shop while I looked at the ground, my bangs covering my unsure and fearful face.  
  
I heard a bell sounding in the back of the store when we walked in, the sound of a sliding ladder hitting the end with a small and a moment of silence before a voice filled with mirth and fascination exclaim: Ahh! I was wondering when you would come in! I think he was talking to me but I wasn't sure. Ah Briar! So nice to see you! So this is your daughter! I've heard of your son being quite popular around here but I it seems his sister is quieter. He was talking to my father. The shop owners knew each other pretty well.  
  
I looked up to meet his gaze and he said quietly, maybe for only my ears to hear, with a sad smile on his face But sometimes knowing when not to speak is a talent that will take many far. I gave him a sad smile in response, appreciating this man's compliment and honesty. This man had a wonderful talent of reading people and was suited well for any job, but this was probably the most entertaining for him.  
  
he huffed, his voice all business. Let's see what we've got! and he headed towards my direction and shooed my father off to the side, a chair nearby. The man measured the dimensions of my right arm to it's fullest extent and headed towards the back of the shop muttering numbers. We went through about five different wands before we came to my wand.  
  
11 inches, willow, sturdy, unicorn hair.  
  
It didn't feel any different from the rest at first. But I felt calm this time, unlike the other times when fear and shame racked my brains. The wand soothed me, calmed me with it's cool surface.  
  
Go on, give it a swish. the shop owner seemed anxious, I think he realized that I was meant for this wand too.  
  
I swished it once, gently across the room, and the room burst into budding blue roses that slowly began to open. They were the bluest of blues, the color of the sky on a spring day, and dew decorated each rose, gently kissing the petals.  
  
The shop owner and my father looked over my work of art, amazed themselves, the shop owner with a twinkle in his eye.   
  
I smiled ever so faintly, not a smile to cover up my true emotions like I had done for years, but a smile of hope.   
  
I had created something beautiful with those tarnished hands.  
  
A tear slid down my cheek, hit the floor and the roses vanished. I quickly wiped away the traces and handed the wand back the shop owner.   
  
He was smiling too.  
  
_AN: Reviews are always welcome! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Another good sized chaper! *pats self on the back* Keep your eyes on Jiei, he'll play a valuable part later on. ^_^ I'll be busy with that paper over the weekend. I'll update the story as soon as possible. Until then... send in more reviews! I appreciate them greatly!   
  
and since I will probably have an extended absense.... Snape, Remus, Anime lovers unite! I give you..... The silver Love Triagle (EXTREMELY FUNNY!!!!)   
  
  
  
(this is not mine.... but my goodness! I love it!)  
  
I tied looking at the link through the preview option and it didn't show. If it still doesn't show I will post it in the reviews section. (don't miss out!!!!!)


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